Zoe Thomas
"The name 'Zoe...' It is of an ancient origin meaning 'Life.' ... Huh, how ironic." The coils and gears are heard roughly turning and hissing as the droid stands up from her temporary stupor. It is these sudden surges of knowledge that let her know she had rebooted successfully. A table to her left displays a few metalic instruments; a stethoscope, a few thermometers and a specialized scope of sorts. She had always wanted to be a doctor. A surgeon, even. Trying to adapt to a droid's way of 'life' is difficult given her rusty appearance and intimidating demeanor. Her vocalizer could only be set so high in pitch before shorting itself out, so she had to make do with a lower setting. Nonetheless, she manages to find work here and there listed as your typical everyday medical droid, even if it means only ever being hired by ruffian gangs and the like. Several years had already passed since her incident and since then she has been trying to get accustomed to this way of living. Her brain lives on where her heart should be and her heart- Well, her structure no longer requires such anatomy. Thanks to the ingenuity of mondern-day technologies and medicines, her father was able to get her the help she needed when it mattered most. At the cost of her biological life, she is able to live on almost indefinitely with the help of her new body. Zoe vows to never let this stop her dream; if she even has one at this point. She has seen much grief and dispair, many bodies mostly dead and rotted from her failed attempt at saving lives. 'Undeserving,' she thought to herself. Most of the time, she would find herself helping the wrong side even if there weren't supposed to be any 'sides' in conflict and struggle, according to a doctor's modern oath. 'What's that? You were shot in the femoral artery? Maybe you should stop shooting at that small family because it's 'fun' to you.' This is something she'll say given the circumstance, but knows it won't change anything except her employer's mind regarding their decision to take her on. "What the fuck is wrong with your programming, tin can!?" A heavy voice, strained in pain would wail out as the man holds down his left armafter being hit with a heavy brick. He ducks down justbehind the fractured stone wall as gunfire sets off once again. Zoe's voice calmly rings out in it's low-toned fashion, "I don't have programming, really. As I have said, I am human." She would try to go on with her diagnosis in terms of the man's pain but is immidiately interrupted by the man's cusses, "Like HELL you are! I don't give a shit if you're a mutant! In fact, you probably ARE a mutant if this is how you think! Now hurry up and shoot back at those fuckers!" A handgun is tossed down in front of the kneeling robot and her frontal lobe arcs downward to scan it over. Three bullets remaining and the barrel is jammed tight. It is true what he says, her mind had to have been tampered with to deal with the transfusion she had taken. A little chip. Blocking out all physical sensations and pain, and in turn, providing an inlet for electrical intake. This means anything pertaining to knowledge, past experiences and the like can be accessed if enough shock is aquired. Her reboots are evidence of this. "I am not progr-- ... I cannot perform that action, sir. Killing people isn't exactly... Why I'm here. I'm here to fix your mistakes-" The man grows enraged and uses his other hand to throw a fair-sized chunk of rubble to Zoe's face. Her jaw function is now jammed and left gaping open. "USELESS DROID!!" He goes on to cuss her out on several things. Too much to care for in her eyes. She just stares at the horrid-looking man and listens patiently. At this time, she had already made up her mind. She did not care for their side's reason for this unprovoked attack, nor did she care what might happen to the man who leans before her. She waits for the man to die down, then for the first time in her calming career, she interrupts a patient's speech, "Mr. Jace, your diagnosis... It's dementia. I recommend a bit more human interaction." This did not make matters any better, but it wasn't supposed to. Zoe had made her choice. "... Dementia. Are you... Are you SERIOUS!? You know, you droid-folk are good for absolutely NOTHING... You do SHIT-ALL!" The robot sits back on her legs and sets her hand calmly on her metalic lap. The gunfire is dying down as uneven footsteps are heard approaching. Her response could sound sinister almost, but she did not care. She failed to save the lives of quite a number of people like this, what's one more? "Zoe. My name Is Zoe." And just like that, Zoe deactivates herself right there in the middle of battle. Perhaps a more suitable presence is worthy of her attempts at human interaction and practice. Or maybe the desperate group of refugees would break her down and use her for scrap. She did not care. Her dream had died. Unless, INITIALIZED... STANDBY FOR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT.